“Mother got a letter this morning.”
Virginia’s clear eyes fixed on him, discerning something behind his words. She blushed suddenly and painfully, leaning back in her seat.
“I’m so glad! Mrs. Carter was so anxious. I haven’t heard myself for a long time,” she added steadily, bending another searching look on William’s brother.
Daniel could not meet it; he flinched. “He’s quite well,” he said thickly, “he’s in New York now, I think. He was to sail on the Britannic. She ought to be in.”
“Oh!”
Virginia’s exclamation was involuntary, but it died in her throat. What could it mean? No letter and William in New York? Then suddenly she colored with happiness, her heart beating wildly. Of course! She understood it now; it accounted for the silence, too. She leaned forward, her clasped hands on her knees, her eyes—beautiful and soft and caressing—dwelling upon the unhappy Daniel.
“I know—he means to surprise me!” she cried. “Dan, you shouldn’t have told.”
Daniel experienced a feeling of dissolution. He withdrew his hand from the wagonette, and leaned heavily on his cane. To let her think this, and to-morrow——!
“I—I don’t think that’s just the idea, Virginia,” he said gravely.
She met his eyes, still radiant; then, slowly, reluctantly, the light faded from hers, and the color receded from her cheeks, even from her lips. She gasped. Then she glanced around at the stout, unmoved back of George Washington Lucas. To her aroused perception even his ears seemed to move, and she was heavily aware that the nigh horse was stamping an impatient foot, troubled by an insistent fly. She moved nearer to the end of the wagonette and bent over Daniel, her eyes fixed on his face again.